Of Fools and Foolishness
by SunshineInSpring
Summary: Part One; In which Helen Pevensie is not a foolish woman, and so does not expect her children back from the country unchanged, but cannot help but wonder what those changes will be. Part Two; In which love is eternal, and time is promised to no-one, but Helen cannot help but hope for her husband's safe return.
1. Chapter 1- Today is here

**A/N: Ok, so after just one day, I'm BACK! I wrote this today, and liked it so much, I just couldn't wait to share it with you! This is in a similar vein to the fic I posted yesterday, The Dearest of Aslan, so go check that out! However, this one is from a Helen Pevensie's point of view, which I liked as we really know very little about her, and so she has become, in this story at least, a prism through which we can view the four. Please enjoy, and leave a review, and without further ado; the story!**

Of Fools and Foolishness

 _Part One_

Helen Pevensie was not a foolish woman. After all, there was a war on, and there was very precious little time to entertain the idea of foolery, if one were to live to see tomorrow. No, Helen Pevensie was not a fool. If she were, she would not have been expecting to see changes in her children when they returned from the country. As she stood at the station, awaiting their train, Helen mused that having been away so long, she would have been a fool to expect them to be the children she waved away so long ago.

Peter had been a boy, then, adult responsibility peeking out at the edges of child-like expressions. A man, trying to emerge from his childhood. The war had forced him, and so many, to grow up before their time. His father enlisting had left Peter the man of the house, at an age where his father was crucial to his development. Peter's journey from a boy to a teen had been rocky- marred by his quick temper, pride and adolescent naivety. At just a teen he had towered over her. Now he would indeed be a man, Helen supposed. It would be foolish to expect the same, young, lost child to return.

 _Helen Pevensie was not a fool._

Susan, a girl at just 13 would be a young woman now, she thought. It was surprisingly easy to imagine Sue as a woman, as the girl had always been so ahead of her years. Whilst Peter had shied away from adulthood, casting aside the toils of getting older, Susan had embraced it and the freedoms that came along with it, even in a war.

At 13 she had been dabbling in make-up, curling and setting her hair, and fussing over the younger ones. Helen supposed though, it would be foolish to hope that the young woman returning on the train would be in need of direction, as she had been those long years ago. Helen remembered her own, awkward forays into adulthood, of dances and boys, and she sighed as she remembered arguments with her own mother over dresses and lipstick. It would be foolish to expect Susan to hold the same idealised view of her mother that she had so long ago, untarnished by adolescent thoughts.

 _Helen Pevensie was not a fool._

Edmund, her darling boy, just 11 when the war began. So small, so pale. So delicately balanced. The absence of his father to the front lines had caused a sort of rebellion in the boy, a childish fantasy that poor behaviour may bring his family running home. Helen had seen the fear behind the anger, though. The primal childish need for love (was it so childish?). But Peter, just a boy himself, reeling from the impacts of war, had not. And Susan, for all her adult behaviour, had not yet developed the motherly empathy that Edmund so craved. It would be foolish to expect Edmund now to still need her, as he once had. Foolish to ask for time to turn back and gift Helen her baby boy once more.

 _Helen Pevensie was not a fool._

And Lucy, just a baby, a sunny smile and fair complexion, happy eyes and golden hair. So innocent. So pure. Helen wondered just how much innocence the elder version of her daughter had maintained. How much had her older siblings been forced to fill in the roles of parents? For too long, certainly. (Curse this blasted war!). Would Lucy even remember her mother and father? (Frank had left to fight when Lucy was only 8). How much love could Helen expect the girl to express to her? (Oh! The child of war!). Was it foolish to ask for her children back unchanged? Yes, certainly physically they would be different, but how much love does time erode? Not from Helen, naturally, as a mother's heart can stretch as far as the ends of the Earth, and never break, but from children? How much could Helen expect? Was expecting anything foolish?

 _Helen Pevensie was not a fool._

And then she saw them, emerging from the crowd, as their train chugged out of the station (how far lost in her thoughts had she allowed herself to become, that she had missed their arrival?), waving, smiling. Peter, tall and fair in the lead, striding purposefully toward her. Chest out, shoulders back, with power in his steps. There was a kindness and a wisdom to his eyes now, as though the man that had been so lost in the child had at last stepped out to take his role.

Next came Lucy, sunny as she had ever been, taller, with long hair dancing as she walked. Her dress (a country style, certainly) flowed prettily as she grasped Peter's hand, and pointed toward Helen, a smile gracing her face. Ant the world seemed to brighten as she did so, nearby soldiers smiling with her. Lucy meant light, after all, and her youngest daughter was light personified.

And then came Susan, gracious and beautiful, elegant, but not in the styles she had been emulating before. Just like her siblings, she waked with power and certainty, confident as Helen had never seen her before. Gone was the fashion obsessed girl, here now was a stylish young woman in control of herself.

Lastly came Edmund. Tall, and more muscular much like his brother, he also carried himself with an air of authority, but also of real power, as though he were a lethal weapon just waiting to be used. His eyes were lighter now, his face less creased and he too had an air of wisdom far beyond his years. He appeared, to Helen, as though all of that pent-up anguish had been released, as though someone had gifted her boy the chance to show his worth, to handle responsibility, and he had proved it through determination and sheer effort.

It would have been foolish to expect her children to be returned to her unchanged after so long away. Yet, as they reached her, her darling grown-up children, and gathered her in a hug, Helen knew that the love within their family would never change.

Love was eternal and it would be foolish to expect anything else.

 _(Helen Pevensie was not a fool.)_

 **AN: So, there you go! I hope you enjoyed this, as I said earlier, if you did, please let me know with a review, and check out my other Narnia story, which focuses more on Lucy, and how Narnian she appears to be, at least through the eyes of her brothers. If you have any prompts or story requests, let me know too, and I hope to be back soon with another fic for you all!**


	2. Chapter 2- Tomorrow is not promised

**A/N:: Phew! Thank you so much; Of Fools and Foolishness got such a positive response, I was not expecting so many of you to read and love it, and for so many of you to ask me to continue this! So, here is part two, of Of Fools and Foolishness, and I really hope you enjoy, this has taken such a long time, as I didn't want to disappoint anyone who had loved the first part! As always, I don't own anything you recognise. Please, enjoy, and let me know in a review!**

 _Part Two_

The streets of London did not sleep any more. Though bombs no longer pierced the night raining death and despair upon those desperate souls (for it had been a desperate, dark time) who had clung to the cities, it was as though people had been awakened to the pure fragility, impermanence, of their lives, and were determined to live every last second. To Helen Pevensie, it was becoming abundantly, painfully clear that time was promised to no-one. Tomorrow was not, it seemed, a guarantee (It would be foolish to assume so. Helen Pevensie was not a fool).

The guns had fallen silent, months ago, and all around she saw friends, neighbours, strangers, united in joy, rejoicing as they saw their (oh! so lucky) menfolk returned to them. There were celebrations in the street as fathers, brothers, husbands and sons were welcomed home.

Some men had not been so lucky, Helen knew. Just that afternoon, she had, with Peter to accompany her (he had not even been asked, just joined her as she left the house), been to the tenth funeral in as many days. The victim had been killed in the line of fire, in the biggest battle of the war. It had been Mr Ruston, of two doors down, who had been laid to rest that afternoon, and Helen had allowed a single tear to escape as she glanced at the man's widow. Mrs Ruston had looked after the children in the early days of the war, before they had been sent to the country for their own safety, when Helen had been called to work. When Frank had first been conscripted.

Then, as though sensing that the morbidity was about to overwhelm Helen, Peter had steered Helen home (oh! how cruel war was- her son was now a man, years snatched away) where Susan had made short work of setting about making dinner, despite the still-rationed supplies. Edmund had pitched in without being asked, and Helen had allowed a proud smile at the way her son had seemed to shed the armour around his heart, as Lucy set the table, easily wielding the tablecloth twice her size. They worked together in unison, a dance without song or prompting, as they did so often these days, when melancholy threatened to take over Helen's thoughts, and prevent her from undertaking these tasks.

She had berated herself so frequently for this because, as she had pointed out to Susan some weeks prior, whilst the children had been evacuated, she had managed, coped, in a way that now, with the children home, she found herself unable to do. Susan had sighed, as though she knew exactly how Helen felt, and, catching her daughter's eye briefly, Helen was unexpectedly filled with certainty that this hunch was correct. "Perhaps," Susan had begun, carefully as though not wanting to reveal too much, "Perhaps that is exactly why you feel this way, mum. Maybe, you were just coping, until we got home. And now we are. But it's still not quite right." Here she had trailed off, and jumped up as a pot in the kitchen began to boil, casting a glance towards an empty chair at the table as she did so. Helen again left to her thoughts, could not help but realise that, in some way, that that conversation was less of a mother and daughter, and more of two friends. The war, she had thought bitterly, had stolen so much, but maybe, it had left space for new parts of her relationships with her children to flourish.

As a plate was set before her, Helen had shaken herself back into the present, and soon dinner had been eaten, and cleared away, then each of her children had hugged her gently, and headed up to bed. Lucy had left last, squeezing her mother's hand, and whispering; "It's not all lost, you know mum. It's not certain until you know for certain. Until then, hope. There's a little magic around in the air tonight, I think. Just believe." Then she had smiled, the sunny smile that Helen had been so relieved to know had not been lost in the intervening years since she had sent her daughter to the country, and danced up to bed. Listening carefully, above the quiet hum of the never silent city, she could just make out Peter wishing Lucy goodnight, and praising her for talking to Helen. Helen smiled sadly as she heard him agree with Lucy that not all was lost, yet.

Helen had not moved from her seat at the table throughout all of this. Dressed still in her funeral attire, she turned her face to the empty seat next to her, where a place had been set out, and cleared away. Where a meal had sat uneaten. Only now did Helen truly allow the tears to flow. _Frank, oh! Frank!_ It had been months since his last letter, and weeks since the war office had called his regiment from the mud of the front. It had been eight days since the rest of his regiment had returned to their families. Except Frank. Helen sobbed quietly, as she tried to repress in her mind what this might mean. Although there had been no official news of his death, Helen was not foolish enough to have not realised that with each passing day the chances of receiving that telegram grew. The children knew, too, despite her pathetic attempts to hide it from them, for they were not truly children anymore (curse this war!). Though she had not expressly told them, it was there in the grip of Peter's hand on her arm as he walked her to and from the funeral. It was in Susan's sigh, and glance towards the empty seat at the table. It was in the careful way that Edmund had set a plate out for him, placing knife and fork with great attention. It was the contradictory sadness in Lucy's eyes, offset against the sunny smile she had given her mother to attempt to give her hope. Helen could not do this alone.

The street still hummed quietly as Helen unwillingly contemplated bringing the children together in the morning to warn them that it looked unlikely now. She knew, with the lack of letters for the past months, coupled with the fact that every one of the soldiers from Frank's regiment had been accounted for, except him, and that all of those alive were now safe in their family homes, that there was an increasing likelihood that any news would not be positive. Most news from the front now was asking for identification of bodies.

She stood and moved to the window, gazing out at the starry sky with a full moon, whilst tendrils of mist began to curl around the houses, shrouding London in a blanket. Helen fancied that Lucy may have been right, the world did look magical tonight. As she turned to head up to bed, heart heavy with the knowledge of what she would be forced to accept, she whispered, quietly, barely audibly, " _I need you, Frank. The children need you, no matter how grown they are now. Please, someone, listen, and send him home, safely. I beg of you."_ Tears still tracking her cheeks, glistening in the moonlight, Helen started up the stairs. As she went, head bowed, she did not see, though it was there, a lion barely visible in the mist, reflected clearly in the pane of glass through which she had been staring.

The sun peaked from over the horizon, illuminating London, bathing it in a golden glow. Mist still ebbed around corners, and workers emerged onto the streets. At the Pevensie house, a knock sounded at the door, but went unnoticed. Mornings were not quiet in this house, for five people jostled to wash in one bathroom, then siblings fell about in bedrooms, looking for stockings, and shirts, and hairbrushes and ties, and breakfast was cooked with whatever food had been scrimped and saved, due to rationing still constricting the country. Helen Pevensie was not exempt, though her morning was filled with dread due to her promise to herself, made the night before. Shouts came from the bathroom- Peter had flicked water over Edmund- and a call for breakfast from the kitchen, as Susan began dishing out the food. The knock had not been heard amongst the chaos. It sounded again, as Helen descended into the hallway, hand on her heart, heavy with the knowledge that she must warn the children of the worst, knowing that this would prepare them to have their fears confirmed.

The knock sounded a third time, impatient now, for it was urgent, and had not been best pleased with being ignored, although it could hear the commotion in the house. Helen jumped at the sound, and casting about for a key, unlocked the door slowly, expecting the milkman, or a neighbour asking if she had just a little sugar or flour to spare (she didn't). What she wasn't expecting was the antithesis to her previous melancholy thoughts. What she wasn't expecting was the answer to her hopes, which she had been sure were soon to be dashed. She let out a laugh of disbelief, as tear started to pour down her cheeks, and she brought a shaking hand to touch the cheek of the man standing before her. _Frank!_ He too was crying now, and brought her into a close embrace, as Peter thundered down the stairs behind them, and, with a _WHOOP!_ of pure joy, called his siblings to the hall also.

There were tears, and hugs exchanged, as Frank was ushered into the house, and the door shut firmly behind him, as if to prevent it opening and dragging him away again. He was pulled into the empty seat, set as always, with a plate and cutlery, whilst Edmund, shaking with joy, spooned some breakfast out for him.

It would have been foolish to believe that time was guaranteed and that tomorrow was a promise that would never be broken. No, Helen Pevensie was not a fool. Life could end, at any time, the war had taught them that. But not everything ends, and if there was one thing Helen was sure of, as her mind finally cleared of melancholy, and the world seemed to right itself, as though everything had been askew, was that only one thing was promised. And that was love.

 _For love is a piece of magic, all on its own._

 **A/N:: Well, there you go! I hope you enjoyed it, I really had fun reading this, and hope it lived up to expectations? I wanted to try to progress this story, but loved the using Helen Pevensie as a viewpoint. As always, thanks for reading, and let me know what you thought in a review!**


End file.
